He walked into the house smelling faintly of coffee and the stale air of long meetings. Our provider, our protector. The pillar that made this house a home, or so he likes to think. I watch him take off his work gear, oblivious to the weight of his presence and my stomach twisted with something between fondness and fury.

He had this way of sucking the oxygen out of the room without even trying, just by being so... him. Predictable. Practical. Dependable. Three words that devoured my free spirit, which had withered somewhere between his workaholic regime and his condescension about my "whimsical ideas."

"You spent how much on paint supplies?" he'd asked last week, his voice tight with disapproval like I'd committed a crime. How dare I act on impulse or passion or heaven help us all—joy. He doesn't understand joy the way I do. He sees it as a thing to be earned like a paycheck or a promotion. But to me, it's a spark, a breath of fresh air, something you seize before it melts away.

Still, I love him. It infuriates me how much I love him. His steady hands have held me through the worst nights of my life. His voice, calm and measured, had talked me down from countless ledges. And when he plays with our kids that tough exterior disappears revealing the man I'd fallen for before life hardened him into this rigid protector.

But tonight, as I watched him pour a glass of water, meticulously rinsing the glass afterward because God forbid a water spot tarnish our kitchen, I couldnt help but feel the simmering resentment rise again. He has clipped my wings, tethered me to this life of schedules and responsibilities with no outlet for me to be free and he didn't even realize it.

"Everything okay?" he asked, glancing up at me. His eyes searched mine.

"Fine." I lied. Because what was the point in saying it? That I hate how he made me feel small sometimes? That his practicality was suffocating? That I missed the version of me that laughed too loud and dreamed too big?

I loved him, but God, I loathed him too. And the worst part? I know he misses that version of me too; the wild carefree girl he'd tamed without even trying.

So I swallowed my distaste, along with the lump in my throat, kissed him on the cheek, and contemplated walking out of his life and starting fresh. But he's mine. The father of my children. My rock. The comfort that stifles my ambition...my weakness. My anchor.